


Where Women Glow And Men Plunder

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: ...I mean SHIELD agents, Alternate Universe - Australia, And Of Course - Freeform, Australian Slang, Bad Decisions, Blood and Injury, Bush Medicine, Canon-Typical Violence, Excessive use of 'fuck', Gen, HYDRA Husbands, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Mission Reports, Missions Gone Wrong, Pets, why is there a tag for that already?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 13,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: -- ADDENDUM TO MISSION REPORT NUMBER xxx-xxxx ---- ASSIGNED BETA-LEVEL CLEARANCE RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION NTK ONLY --As far as the mission report contained above, STRIKE Team Alpha Commander Rumlow B. survived 9 days approx. in unoccupied territory roughly north-west of engagement site for STRIKE operation [REDACTED], utilising available natural resources until recovery and extraction by rescue personnel on [DATE].However, because some fucking snitch on the medical team (naming no names, Agent Westfahl) decided to make a fuss about how my injuries got treated and the fact I had fleas, they’re making me own up to what actually happened. And I hope to fucking Christ hardly anybody reads this and the rest of SHIELD goes around thinking I got through a week in the outback surviving on sun-dried lizards and my own piss.Because if anyone asks, that’s exactly what fucking happened.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplinterCell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/gifts).



> (...can't you hear can't you hear the thunder....)
> 
> Jack Rollins, as we know him, never existed. That's not the bad part.  
> The bad part is that this mission has gone south (quite literally), Agent Rumlow is stuck in the Outback with no possibility of rescue, and the only thing standing between him and certain death is a tall man in short shorts.  
> (and his dog)

\-- ADDENDUM TO MISSION REPORT NUMBER xxx-xxxx --

\-- ASSIGNED BETA-LEVEL CLEARANCE RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION NTK ONLY --

 _As far as the mission report contained above, named personnel survived nine (9) days approx. in unoccupied territory roughly north-west of engagement site for STRIKE operation_ [REDACTED], _utilising spare rations and available natural resources until recovery and extraction by rescue personnel on_ [DATE].

_However, because some fucking snitch on the medical team (naming no names, Agent Westfahl) decided to make a fuss about how my injuries got treated and the fact I had fleas, they’re making me own up to what actually happened. And I hope to fucking Christ this gets beta-level clearance or something so hardly anybody fucking reads it and the rest of SHIELD goes around thinking I got through a week in the outback surviving on sun-dried lizards and my own piss.  
_

_Because if anyone asks, that’s exactly what fucking happened._

 

_As per everything above this (once Agent Crabbe has edited the shit out of it), anyone reading this part already knows exactly how this fucking shitshow went. Long story short - I’m in the middle of the fucking desert, rocks the only fucking things for miles, no weapon, no comms, no backup, no way of knowing where the fuck I am and more holes in my body than I want at any time, most of which are bleeding. And I just got dumped out of a fucking moving vehicle which was about the best fucking thing to happen to me in the past twenty-four hours._

_Before anybody asks, no, there wasn’t a fucking road. They dumped my soon-to-be-dead ass out in the fucking wilderness because if there was a fucking road, I could’ve fucking crawled maybe halfway to civilisation before I died and at least got found by a fucking human instead of the fucking wildlife._

_So I’m lying there for an unknown duration, regretting my life for the fiftieth fucking time that day and about to be eaten by wallabies, and I hear something that sounds like a shotgun being loaded behind me._

_Tip for ya, free of charge: if you ever hear that sound, it’s because there’s a fucking shotgun being loaded behind you._

_And a dog starts growling and I wonder what the fuck a dog is doing with a shotgun or if I’m hallucinating already. And I turn round…._

The harsh sun forced him to squint, but it didn’t make what he was seeing any easier to handle. The dog - a mangy yellow beast which probably spent its life tied up in the yard, waiting for a nice juicy postman to wander past - was doing its best to look threatening, but he could deal with aggressive dogs. It was the owner that concerned him.

At a guess the man was somewhere over six feet, broad shoulders and long limbs and skin weathered by the outdoors, long straggly sun-bleached hair. Age anywhere between thirty-five and sixty-five. He wore a hat, its colour and shape both lost to the ages, and shorts, and sandals, and carried the shotgun as if might be thinking of using it some time in the next five minutes.

Brock didn’t think this was what salvation was supposed to look like.


	2. Chapter 2

The man said something, and dehydration and blood loss might have been to blame for the fact that Brock didn’t understand a word.

“What?” he gasped out, in case it was a threat or a question.

The man repeated it, and pointed behind, at a vehicle which looked, at best, like it had been abandoned in a war zone. The tyres were probably last changed when Clinton was President. A dead _something_ was caught in the front grille.

_So - I still can’t confirm it - I guess he was talking about getting in his truck. They don’t call it a truck out there but fuck it, that’s what I’m going with. Truck is a generous fucking description anyway. He shoves me in the back and takes off._

_I know we’re supposed to be able to work out where we’re going, road conditions, etc. (even when hooded - and yes I’ve tried that out), but fuck if I know. There’s nothing out there - no landmarks, no buildings, fucking nothing as far as the eye can see. For the record, I hate that fucking place. Any mission where I have to go back there’ll be my last before I fucking retire. If I don’t shoot myself in the fucking foot beforehand._

_I estimate we’re on the road for somewhere between a half-hour and a full hour, going roughly north through the countryside. Literally straight fucking through. I ask my new friend where he’s taking me, but he doesn’t answer. I ask him his name twice, and get two completely different answers that I’m not even going to try to transcribe. I point out to him that I’m bleeding out in the back of his truck, and he replies, and I tell him that I don’t fucking speak Australian Redneck. He turns to me - so at least one of his eyes is still on the direction we’re going - and says something about leaving me on an airstrip or something…._

“But let’s be honest, you’re bloody rooted mate if you’re dumped out in the back of beyond -  you’ll cark it before the flying doctor shows up.”

“So you’re taking me… to your house?”

“Yep. About ten clicks out of here, as the crow flies.”

This was the first sentence that Brock could understand in its entirety. He lay and stared at the faded roof of the vehicle.The information was useful, although he remained hampered by not knowing where ‘here’ was. And he wished the guy would pay more attention to the terrain. The truck jolted - the suspension, apparently, being made of scaffold poles - and he suppressed a sound that definitely wouldn’t have been a scream.

“Fucking hell. You’ve got a casualty on board!”

“Do I look like an ambo?”

“Uh… no?”

Apparently, the right answer. Even the dog seemed to approve, thumping its tail against the seat by his head and attempting to lick his wounds. Brock fended it off, not wanting to ultimately die of whatever was breeding in its mouth. It licked his face instead.

“You a Yank?” his rescuer asked suddenly.

“You guessed?” was all he could say, through a rancid fog of dog breath. He forced the dog back and sat up a little. “Why?”

The man just shrugged. “On your own?”

“For now, yeah.” The dog made another attempt on his cheek. “I can’t tell you why. I’d genuinely have to kill you, and I don’t wanna,” and, in this case, he wasn’t certain of winning the fight. “Unless nobody’s gonna believe you when you tell them.”

“You reckon I’m troppo?”

“I - uh… no.”

Correct answer again.The man nodded sagely, and brought the truck wheezing and banging to a standstill in front of a house.

 _House is a real generous fucking description, too._ _The place is made of boards and fucking baling twine. Two rooms, a porch and an outhouse. The front door apparently doesn’t have a lock, because he just carries me inside and dumps me on a ratty old couch (yeah, I got carried. Laugh if you want, fuckers. I couldn’t fucking walk.) Then he sits down, pulls my leg out straight and pokes at it. I kick him (reflex, I swear) and tell him to fuck off. He goes and gets some medical kit. I won’t say he’s the best doctor I ever had - more like the worst - but he patches me up fairly well. No painkillers, though. I might have punched him a couple times, until he held me down._

_I ask him again where we are, and he says something that might as well be Timbuktu. I ask him whether he has a phone or radio, and he doesn’t tell me. I ask him what his name is for the nth fucking time, and this time he just says ‘Jack’. Which is at least something I can fucking understand. To be friendly, since he probably saved my fucking life, I ask ‘Jack’ what his dog’s name is. He stares right at me - at least, I think he does - and says ‘dog’. The dog pays attention to that and wags its tail, so I figure its name is actually just fucking ‘Dog’. I thank Jack for saving my life and he grunts. The dog fucks up what could be a heartwarming moment by grabbing my good leg and humping the shit out of it._

“Fuck you.” Brock shoved the dog away - it landed with an undignified yelp on the bare floor, flopped around for a while, then started to vigorously lick its own undercarriage. When he looked up, Jack was gazing at the pair of them. He stood and left the room without a word.

“Ok.” Brock was talking to himself more than the dog, willing himself to calm down. “Ok.” He was starting to shiver, coming down from the adrenaline high, his limbs heavy and painful. Falling asleep would be a bad idea - especially since he wasn’t sure of Jack’s allegiance - but he wanted to do it anyway, wrapped in a heavy old blanket on a couch that was more springs than anything else. He was alive, and that was the main thing.

He was also miles from civilisation, wounded and stranded in this place with a man he didn’t know and couldn’t trust, and that was a fairly major thing.


	3. Chapter 3

_ When I wake up - because of course I fucking fell asleep, or passed out, or whatever - the sun is setting, the dog is sitting on my chest scratching its ear and Jack is standing there with a bowl of something and a fork. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t fucking want to know, but I’m hungry so I shove the stupid fucking dog on the floor and eat it anyway. The dog seems to think it can lick the bowl when I’m done, so I guess that’s how he usually does things. Gross. _

_ For the record, I don’t think the guy had a dishwasher. A quick tour - to the left of the entrance, you’ve got the room with the couch, a load of boxes, a bigger box that’s a coffee table, a wall of shelves, something that might be a closet, and a bed frame propped up with cinderblocks. On your right, you’ve got a room with vinyl flooring that’s a neat combination of kitchen, dining room, pantry, workshop, bathroom (minus the toilet - that’s outside with the fucking wildlife), utility room and garage. It’s that shabby chic thing they go on about in all those dumbass lifestyle magazines Agent Simms is into, except with more shotgun _ _. _

_ I drift off for a while longer - there’s no fucking clocks in this place, of course - and when I come round, Jack is sitting beside me with a bucket of water and a sponge. I tell him that he’d better be fucking kidding. Turns out he isn’t. Ok, so I was probably pretty ripe by that point, plus the dirt and the wounds, but still. On a scale of one to that Turkish masseur I had a few years back when we were tracking that guy about the subway thing, ‘sponged down by a lanky Outback nutjob’ is about a minus-four. He removes my clothes like he’s peeling a fucking banana and goes in. At least the water’s warm, right? I look away because I don’t want to make eye contact with whichever eye of his is facing my way, and try to pass out again. It doesn’t work (even though Agent Westfahl can apparently do it on demand? Make a note for me to look into that shit.) The dog is eating something out of the trash. _

_ I curse at him (Jack, not the dog) when he cleans off some of the nastier cuts and scrapes, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so I kick him. He leans across my collarbones and holds me down, and I’m pretty fucking sure he goes for my junk deliberately, and I’m also pretty fucking sure it’s not a bath sponge, but one of those ones you wash cars with. It fucking sucks, in other words. I tell him this and he doesn’t respond, which I’m kind of used to by now, so I kick him again. I shit you not, he grabs my balls in one giant fucking hand and says, and I quote “You wanna stop that now, mate?”. _

_ Obviously I stop kicking him. A man needs to have his fucking priorities. _

_ He leaves me alone after that, and so does the fucking dog, thank Christ. It gets properly dark and I get comfy on the couch, so of course he comes back and heaves me onto the fucking bed. Where I pass out again. This time I think there was some actual sleep in the mix, but don’t take it as read. _


	4. Chapter 4

_ I must’ve slept - or otherwise been unconscious - from the middle of the night to somewhere in the middle of the next day. When I wake up, he’s gone. So’s the dog. I look out the window and so’s the truck. I figure he went somewhere (no shit Sherlock). He’s left food and water for me, and it doesn’t appear to be tampered with, so I eat it. Then, mainly because I’m crashing hard and I can still barely fucking walk, I figure I deserve a lie-in for once. The front of the house faces East as far as I can tell, but I still don’t know where I am or who the fuck Jack is. Or who the fuck he thinks I am. _

_ I’m asleep again - long day - by the time he gets back. I manage to get out of bed at least and brave the elements, and all the fucking creatures made by Mother Nature’s PMS, to limp out for a piss. The fucking dog follows me and stares at my junk with its tongue hanging out. At least its owner doesn’t, right? _

The screen door - with a patched-over hole the exact size and shape of the dog - latched behind him with a scrape of protest, but Brock wasn’t raised in a barn (rather, in a neighbourhood where you didn’t leave your door open for  _ anything _ .) He closed the inner door as well, for good measure, and started to wonder about the window blinds.

Jack obviously wasn’t concerned about the blinds. He also wasn’t concerned about stripping off and washing at the sink, giving the dog something new to stare at. Brock turned away and sat heavily back on the couch.

After a while, the sound of running water stopped. There was a rattle and a clink, and the ‘thud’ of a fridge door, and Jack’s hand was beside his face, with a bottle.

“I’m -” Brock started to say that he shouldn’t, because he was on painkillers, then remembered that he wasn’t. (Which, to be quite honest, explained all the pain.) He took the beer and concentrated on drinking it, to avoid looking at Jack - now in a tattered bath towel - sitting beside him with a cold one of his own.

“So, ah… where you from?”

Jack just glanced around, as if to say ‘here’. As if he’d blown in from the desert one day like a tumbleweed, and made this his home.

“Is this… does your family own this place? D’you have a family? Is there  _ anyone _ here apart from this fuckin’ dog - or are they all buried under the fuckin’ porch?”

“Fuck off,” Jack responded good-naturedly, and took a drink.

“No, really. Is this how you treat all your guests?”

“Nah,” Jack said, which could be taken to mean that he didn’t have guests, or that he didn’t treat them like this, or that he didn’t treat them  _ all _ like this.

Brock didn’t feel like pursuing the matter. He lay back and drank, and felt a little better.

By his fourth beer, he was feeling a lot better.

By his seventh, he would probably have been feeling great, if he was conscious.

_ It’s real fucking tempting to say he drugged me or some shit, but let’s be real here - I got fucking wasted on mission and fell asleep on the fucking couch. So sue me. (Don’t sue me. Seriously, if any of this comes off of my paycheck I’m going straight to those assholes in the finance department and flipping some fucking tables, consider this your warning.) _

_ I wake up in his bed - without him, thank Christ - and without too much of a hangover, but my whole body telling me I’d better not make any smart moves any time soon. Like I said, no painkillers. Jack makes me breakfast and then goes out again, fuck knows where, with his truck and the fucking dog. _

_ I still don’t know what time it is, and I don’t want to wander off into the fucking outback to try and escape, especially as my legs aren’t too happy about me doing shit like ‘standing up’ and ‘walking’. I get out of bed at least, and case the joint. Fridge full of beer. Food, clothes, books: it’s a fucking shack and everything’s old as fuck, but mostly clean. A telescope, for some reason. Tools, weapons, some stuff that doubles as both. And so many guns. So many. Probably a few that aren’t legal there, but who’s gonna fucking check? I’d like to see the inspector with the brass fucking balls to go round this place. I take a pocket knife, just to be safe, and get together what’s left of my gear. And put my clothes back on. _

_ Did I mention he undressed me? Because he did. But I didn’t wake up with a sore ass, so fair’s fair. I do a quick change of my dressings, figure I’m not about to die right this second, and steal a beer. (Hair of the dog, right? And about the only fucking thing in the place that  _ doesn’t  _ have dog hair on it.) The door isn’t locked, as usual, so I go sit on the porch and check out the scenery. Fucking rocks, a fence and some scabby-ass bushes, and that’s about it. Maybe a tree. At least the weather’s good. If by ‘good’ you mean ‘trying to fucking bake you alive’. _


	5. Chapter 5

Wherever Jack went, he was gone for a long time. Brock found food - nobody had said anything about not raiding the kitchen - and lay in the shade of the porch, with a cushion under his head and a water bottle by his side, and the nothingness surrounding him. There were a few flickers of life, birds and insects (and at a distance something that might have been larger), but otherwise the place was empty. It was disconcerting to think how far from civilisation he might be. A single crazy outback dude and his retarded dog didn’t count.

Lulled half to sleep by the heat and the gentle chugging of a generator somewhere nearby, he still heard the truck coming from a fair distance away. It sounded like a rifle company deciding to do some target practise, all at once, in several different directions. Not that there were any neighbours to be bothered by it.

“Where’d you go?” he said, sitting up as Jack took the three steps up to the porch in a single stride.

“Out,” Jack replied, which apparently sufficed as an answer.

“Yeah, but where?”

Jack squinted at him briefly. “Out.” And went inside.

Brock scrambled to his feet as fast as he could (not very), and blocked the doorway casually with his body, suppressing a wince.

“So where’s the nearest outpost from here? Or the nearest gas station? How far d’you have to go to get supplies?”

“Not too far,” Jack said noncommittally. He seemed to be aware that Brock was preventing him from going back out to the truck, but disinclined to do anything about it just yet.

“Miles? Hundreds of miles? C’mon. If I walked out here right now…” he gestured behind, “how long would it take me to get somewhere?”

“Rest of your life, mate.”

“Now you’re just being stupid.”

“Which’d be about two days. If you’re lucky.”

Brock shut up for a minute, considering his options. He had a knife, if it came down to it, but there were probably better ways to make Jack answer him.

“So, are you gonna take me to the hospital? Or call a doctor?”

“You look fine to me.”

“Yeah, sure. What about the rest of my team, huh? What about the people who are gonna be looking for me? You’re just gonna strand me out in the fucking outback with no fucking comms and let ‘em think I’m dead? Is that your plan?”

Jack came to stand in front of him. Brock could perhaps try and take him in a straight fight, but it wouldn’t be pleasant. And if he killed the guy, he was on his own. He wasn’t going to move, though.

“Well? What is it, cocksucker? What’s it gonna be? Answer me!”

A sudden weight attached itself to his leg and looking down was enough to set him off-balance. Brock cursed and tumbled squarely onto the dog, which carried on humping his ankle without a care. Jack smirked and pushed past the two of them, whistled for the dog, and the truck’s artillery-fire engine lurched into life.

Brock was left on his own again.


	6. Chapter 6

_It’s nearly dark when he comes back, and he still won’t answer my questions. We eat together - I’m including the fucking dog in this - but he hardly says anything. Then we’re standing and looking at the bed, and this is where anybody with any fucking respect for my dignity is gonna stop reading._

_Long story short, neither of us wants to sleep on the couch. I’m in a tank top and boxers at least, even though it’s still pretty warm. He isn’t. We start off pretty well, back to back, until the temperature drops and I wake up for a minute in the middle of the night to find him wrapped around me like a fucking octopus. I will personally find and kick the ass of anyone who laughs at this, I swear to god._

_In the morning there’s somebody licking me._

_I check to see if it’s the dog, which it is, and that’s a fucking relief. Last thing I need is for shit to get weirder. Turns out that Jack does have comms - he’s talking on the radio, so I stay real still and quiet in case he’s talking about me. I can’t tell what the fuck he’s talking about anyway. I shit you not, I speak like eight languages to a basic level and I have no fucking idea. He hangs up and I pretend like I’ve just woken up. He doesn’t say a word to me and takes the truck out again, leaving me with the fucking dog._

_I do the morning routine, slowly (fuck outside toilets in that place. Fuck them all. If I ever have to take another piss while looking over my fucking shoulder in case a fucking snake decides to bite me on the dick it’s too soon.) and head back inside. My first idea - ok, second idea, after breakfast - is to go for the radio. But the fucking dog is in the way._

“Are you growling at me?”

The dog, which had been friendly (over-friendly, to be quite honest) ever since he arrived, was definitely growling at him. Hackles raised, head down, ears back. He circled around the couch, and came from a different angle. The dog swivelled to face him, still rumbling like a tiny echo of the generator outside. He retreated over to the other side of the room, and watched as it relaxed, licked its lips, and sat. Brock stayed still. The dog stared at its own tail for at least ten minutes, fascinated. It wiggled its hindquarters. It raised a back leg and frantically scratched its right ear, then stared at the leg until it overbalanced and had to sit back down.

As soon as he moved forward again, the growling started up.

“The fuck is your problem?”

He had a feeling that they both had the same problem, in their own ways: the radio. He wanted to get to it, and Dog would rather that that didn’t happen. Under normal circumstances, a fully equipped SHIELD agent wouldn’t see a medium-sized dog as a significant obstacle - but he was hardly fully equipped. It wouldn’t be a fair fight. And if he stabbed the guy’s dog to death, his odds of making out alive before any sort of help showed up were insignificant indeed.

He took a trip to the kitchen instead.

“Hey, buddy. I know, right?”

Dog was thumping its tail against the floor, raising tiny puffs of dust. He could see its nose twitching.

“You sure you don’t wanna come over here? You _sure_ …?”

He tossed a scrap of rind. It landed on the hard floor three feet from Dog, and the wagging increased tenfold. But it didn’t move. Another chunk plopped down beside the first. Still nothing. A string of saliva dangled from the stupid mutt’s lip.

“Ok, have it your way.” He hadn’t thought that such a dumb animal could be capable of such self-control. Jack must have actually managed to train it. “You don’t want this. That’s fine. I’ll just eat it myself.”

He flipped the bacon, making it sizzle. Poking at the pan took his eyes away from the dog for two seconds. A sudden pain in his foot made him look down, and there it was - sitting directly on his toe, drooling hopefully on the leg of his pants. Brock smiled at it and scratched its ears.

“See, I knew you’d come round.” He plucked a rasher into the air, cooling it, and dangled it above the dog’s face. “Atta boy. You just come and get this….”

As soon as the bacon hit the floor, the dog was on it - and Brock was crossing the room to the radio.

_I swear my hand touches the fucking thing. I swear. And then the fucking dog jumps me._

_Maybe I should’ve given it more food, or maybe the half a second I took turning off the stove so I didn’t burn the fucking place down was a mistake, whichever, because it grabs my leg and I fall smack on my floor. I roll over just as it switches from mauling my shoe to trying to maul my face, and fend it off. We wrestle like good buddies for a while - it trying its hardest to bite me, me trying not to get rabies on top of everything else - and then it suddenly jumps up and bounces away to the door. At first I think it just got distracted by a fucking bug or some shit._

_Turns out I didn’t even hear the truck coming._


	7. Chapter 7

_ I try to crawl for the radio but a boot comes down on my back. The fucking dog is pulling at my shoe, because it thinks this is a fucking game. I figure it’s best to stay still. Let’s face it - bacon on the stove, dog looking happy, my hand two inches from the only comms in the place: I look pretty fucking guilty. But you know how they say the best form of defence is attack. _

“Why don’t you want me getting hold of this?” The boot was grinding down, and the floor was hard and uneven. It hurt. “What are you hiding?”

The dog finally separated his shoe from his foot, and bounded around with it.

“You gonna let me up?” If he twisted round fast enough, he could catch Jack by surprise and turn the tables. It was a big ‘if’.

Jack hauled him to his feet instead of answering and threw him into one of the kitchen chairs, which skidded a foot backwards. Jack followed it and planted his hands on the back, framing Brock’s head and blotting out the mid-morning sun with his body.

“Using a bloke’s stuff without his say-so. Bit rude, eh?”

Brock had had him down as a rough, shouty outdoor type. But his voice, though cracked, was now soft and deadly.

“What, you want me to ask first?” He shrugged. “ Ok, my bad. Can I use your radio to get some fucking help around here so I’m not stuck in a fucking shack with you and your fucking dog.”

The dog’s ears went up. It raised its head and howled happily.

“Shut up,” Jack told it, and it did. “No.”

“Why not? Give me one - just  _ one _ \- good reason why it’s ok for you to keep me here - wounded, remember - without getting any kind of assistance. A fucking doctor? Maybe let my guys know I’m alive? Maybe make it so they come and get me in a chopper, nice and peaceful, instead of busting in here with a strike team as soon as they find out where I am? Because believe me - they will. Oh, they will. You gonna stand up to that, tough guy? You gonna fight off a dozen Black Ops motherfuckers like me with your shotgun and your retarded mutt?” He took a breath. “Somehow I don’t fucking think so.”

He and Jack stared each other down, to a background track of shoe consumption.

Jack pushed away from the chair and went into the other room.

_ I don’t know what his fucking game is, but he doesn’t talk to me after that. I get my boot off of the stupid dog - which is why it’s covered in marks, yes - and go outside to walk around a little. Making circles around the house is about all I can do, so I do that. There’s a rumble of thunder somewhere off in the distance, and some fat black clouds. I check to see if he left the keys in the truck, but he hasn’t. If it even has keys. It’s probably one of those ones you can start with a fucking spoon handle, but I don’t have a spoon either. _

_ After a couple dozen circuits of the house - inside the fence boundary, just in case a fucking kangaroo shows up and tries to kill me - I get bored, and tired, and hungry. In that order. I go inside to see if Jack still wants to feed me, or talk to me. I get food but not conversation, which is the best way to have it in my opinion. The fucking dog goes for my other shoe, trying to even things out, and I kick it. It makes the most pathetic noise I’ve ever heard - and I’ve heard Cap crying in the pillow about his senile girlfriend - and falls over like it got shot. Jack tells it to stop being such a wuss and get up (I think) and it sulks next to the stove. I tell him I’m sorry for kicking his dog, which I am. The dog lies down and licks the floor. I assume there was bacon grease there or something. _

_ Jack is back on the radio in the evening and - as far as I can tell - there’s a storm coming. The rest I can’t make out, although this time I’m about ninety-nine percent sure he’s talking about me. Which means there’s someone within reach who knows I’m here. Which is nice, and also useful, because - follow my logic here - if I can contact them while he’s asleep or out, they might be able to come get me, and they might be a bit less of a head case than him. At the very least, they might own a few less shotguns. Or I might at least find out why he’s so keen on keeping me here instead of driving me to the nearest hospital or dumping me back out on the road. _

_ When we get to bed, he pins me down by the neck and ties me to the bedframe, so there goes that plan. _


	8. Chapter 8

_ If I was healthier and not taken by surprise, I could’ve kicked him off of me. Wish upon a fucking star, right? I test it - you better believe I fucking test it - but he’s one of those guys who really knows how to tie knots. The pocket knife is under the pillow, but I can’t get it. Hands tied to the top, feet to the bottom, with about two inches of slack either way. Pulling at the ropes makes the frame creak and I don’t want to wake him by collapsing the whole fucking thing on top of us, so I lie and think about how fucked I am. On the bright side, my back feels much better. _

_ Somewhere in the night, the rain starts. It’s a fucking monsoon, but the roof of the shack holds up. The dog wakes up when the thunder and lightning comes and howls for a bit. Jack doesn’t wake up. The dog hides in the closet with its tail sticking out. I figure that, if the fury of Thor doesn’t disturb the guy, nothing will, so I start testing the ropes again. I pull as hard as I can, but nothing happens. I manage to turn onto my front and stick my head under the pillow and grab the pocket knife with my teeth, and from there work out how I’ll get it into my hand. If I put it down and then head-butt the pillow hard enough, I predict I can bump it up to a place where I can just about get to it. _

_ So naturally this is the point where the frame gives the fuck up. _

_ The knife goes fuck knows where in the dark, the cinderblocks crash onto the floor - covered by the thunder, lucky right? - and everything tips sideways. The bottom of the frame smacks me in the feet. I’m still tied to it, it’s fucking awkward, and now Jack is on top of me as well. And guess what, he hasn’t even fucking twitched. If it wasn’t for the snoring I’d think the guy was dead. _

_ We stay like that until the sun comes up and the dog rolls out of the closet. I’ve spent the whole night trying everything I can think of to get free, but surprise - it doesn’t fucking work. The fucking dog comes over and licks Jack’s feet for a bit before wandering off, and that’s apparently what wakes him up. He mutters something in my ear - I don’t know what it was and I don’t want to know - and nuzzles my neck, and I feel… _

_...you know what, fuck this. I’m not putting that in here. Everyone here is a fucking adult who knows what happens to guys in the morning so I’m not gonna fucking describe it, except to say it’s not a weapon in his non-existent pocket and he’s definitely happy to see me and also it’s less of a 9mm and more of a .357 Magnum if you catch my drift. Fuck this. If anyone questions me about this bit I’m quitting, I fucking swear. _

The worst thing was, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Between missions, training and travel - and trying to suck up to Rogers every spare minute he had - it had been a while for him. Jack’s stubble was rough on his jaw, and a hand was making its way across his side, massaging the rise of his hip joint. It would be the easiest thing in the world to let happen whatever was going to happen. And it couldn’t get much more awkward than it already was. Unless the dog decided to join in.

The guy’s hands were cold, though. Brock yelped and broke out of his trance.

“Hey. Hey!”

Jack blinked once and sat up on one elbow. He seemed more surprised by Brock being there than the fact that his bed was now a futon.

“Get off of me. Now.”

Jack shrugged and threw back the blanket.

“Hey, no - wait - untie me first! C’mon.”

“You got a knife, don’t ya?”

“How did y- like I can get to it, right. Real fucking funny. Untie me, motherfucker.”

“Not with that attitude,” Jack said, and wandered off to the kitchen. Brock turned away from the sight of his host’s bare ass and swore loudly at the ceiling. The rain clattered down in response.

Jack leaned in the doorway and ate, watching the rusty dirt outside churn into mud. The dog poked around his ankles and ran outside, skidded to a stop in a puddle, circled and howled at the sky in outrage, rushed back in, sneezed loudly and shook all over the room. A few of the droplets (cold, naturally), hit Brock’s bare skin and he growled, testing his bonds again.

“Are you gonna put this thing back up?”

“Yep,” Jack said, working lazily on a piece of toast.

“Are you gonna do it soon? Because I don’t wanna have to pull your fuckin’ bed apart.”

Jack shrugged. The dog sneezed again, directly onto Brock’s toes.

“Let me go.”

“You got somewhere to be?”

“Fuck you. Fuck you, and your fuckin’ dog, and everything you stand for.”

“If I let you up, will you stop yammering?”

“Well....” Brock said, in a manner that suggested he would definitely consider it. Jack came and stood over him, still completely nude. “Yeah, sure, for fuck’s sake put some clothes on.”

“My house,” was Jack’s reply, as he sank onto one knee and began to loosen the ropes. Loosen them from the bed frame, that is.

“Sure, whatever.” Brock was prepared to fight his way free as soon as he was given an opening, but none came. Jack sat on him the whole way through, pinning him down by weight alone, and then flipped him into a hog-tie so quick and efficient that he didn’t have time to react. He lay on the hard floor and fumed while Jack patiently re-assembled the bed.

“Fine, you got me. C’mon, you crazy bastard. Let me go.”

“I dunno.” He leaned over and slapped Brock’s thigh, directly over a bruise. “Keeps you from going walkabout.”

“I’m not gonna! We already established this - there’s nowhere I can fucking go! You got no reason to keep me like this.”

“What if I like it?”

“Then you’re…” The hand was still on his thigh. “Fuck’s sake. Please don’t tell me this is some kind of fetish for you.”

Jack smirked and gently squeezed him in response.

“It is, isn’t it? Fuck.”

“Nah, I’m just messin’ with ya.” Jack stood up and re-arranged the bedcovers, then dragged some shorts out of the pile of clothing on the floor and pulled them on. “You’re not bad looking, though.” The last was added over his shoulder as he went onto the porch.

_ I lie there for a while longer, trying to figure out if he was joking. Also, I lie there because I’m still tied up. _

_ He lets me go so I can eat and get dressed, and doesn’t try to grope me again, so I figure we’re good. We sit on the porch together and watch the rain like we’re friends or some shit, only now I don’t have a weapon and know for sure that he can overpower me if he gets the drop. Romantic, huh? _


	9. Chapter 9

_ I sink a couple beers, because why the fuck not, and fail to get anywhere near the radio. It’s not like he’s stopping me, but he’s also right there, and I don’t know how crazy the bastard is. And I don’t want to see the rest of his fucking bondage repertoire. _

_ I’m not into that shit. I don’t care what anybody says - and Agent Mercer is a fucking liar, for the record. The New Year’s Eve Incident of ‘09 never fucking happened, and even if it did, there’s no way I couldn’t have escaped from Agent Westfahl’s weak-ass knots and that one dodgy pair of cuffs we still keep for some fucking reason, even if I was wearing nothing but thigh-highs and a cowboy hat, in the snow, somewhere in Manhattan, at 4am. Fuck you, Mercer. You watch your fucking mouth, is all I’m saying. Nobody believes that shit. _

“How about you let me out of here?”

It wasn’t the best conversation starter Brock knew, but it was preoccupying him. The itch to get moving again was strong, even with the residual discomfort from his wounds. Being without his team felt wrong on a fundamental level. How long before they stopped looking? He knew the answer, down to the hour - it was a matter of official policy, and he’d had to make those calls himself on occasion - but didn’t want to consider it. He wanted to reconnect.

Jack pointed the neck of his bottle out at the lashing rain.

“Alright. Off you go, mate.”

“Fuck you,” Brock said. It was all he could say, really. “You’re in for some fucking trouble, when they find me.”

“If,” Jack added.

It took Brock a second to process. “If? Fucking  _ if _ ? Are you fucking serious? Threatening me?” He laughed, short and incredulous. “You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

“No,” Jack said, narrowing his eyes at the bush (or perhaps just squinting; Brock didn’t know how good his eyesight might be). “I don’t.”

“Didn’t I introduce myself? Oh, my bad.” He stuck out his hand, in a manner bordering on aggressive. “Brock Rumlow, SHIELD Agent and mission commander of the biggest fucking disaster since some fucker on the  _ Titanic _ went ‘it’s all good, that iceberg’s miles away’. And you are…?”

Jack didn’t take his hand, and instead stared thoughtfully at the ground. Brock finished his beer and went to set the bottle down, but found a mound of fur under his hand. The dog sniffed and licked his elbow, and didn’t move anywhere more convenient. He put the bottle next to it.

“SHIELD?” Jack asked finally, as if to himself.

“It’s an acronym,” Brock said helpfully. “It st-.”

“I know what it stands for,” Jack snapped, surprising both Brock and the dog. He rubbed his face with one hand. “Why are you out here?”

“I wouldn’t  _ be _ out here if you hadn’t fucking ‘rescued’ me.”

Jack gave him a look which suggested he better answer the question.

“What if I can’t tell you, huh? What if it’s classified?”

“Fair do’s.” Jack heaved himself to his feet and disappeared into the house.

Brock shook his head and sighed, and scratched the dog’s ears without looking, only to find that it had turned around and he was scratching its ass.

“Ah, cmon….”

  _So, you remember what I was saying earlier about the sound of a shotgun being loaded behind you?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Tim Minchin ('Hello') "If you are offended by strong language or blasphemy / Maybe you should fuck off home / 'Cos it's only gonna get worse, it's only gonna get worse, from now on...."

The dog whimpered and ran out from under his hand. Brock stayed very still, only looking as far round as he needed to confirm the fact. At this range, he’d decorate most of the porch if Jack got trigger-happy.

“Changed your mind about ‘classified’ now, ya mad cunt?”

“You think that’s enough to sc- _the fuck did you call me_?”

“You deaf?”

“You _dare_ .” Brock surged to his feet before Jack could react. “You fucking _dare_!”

Jack looked bemused, which wasn’t what he was expecting. “You what?”

“I don’t know if you’re paying attention, buddy, but you just called me a cunt.”

“So?”

With those words, Brock felt the slow yawning of a cultural chasm opening between them. He took a step back, all too aware of the twin barrels pressed against his chest.

“You are a mad cunt, though.”

“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

“You reckon it’s a bad thing?”

“I…” he opened his mouth, and closed it again, and scowled at Jack. “I guess… ah, forget about it. You mind putting the fucking gun down?”

Jack renewed his grip on the shotgun instead. Brock regretted reminding him of it. They could have had an enlightening conversation about linguistics, insults and broadening one’s horizons. And, more importantly, he could have distracted Jack for long enough to be able to kick his ass and take his weapon.

He shifted from foot to foot instead, warming up in case he got another chance.

“Not gonna tell me why you’re out here?”

“I told you. I’m with a SHIELD mission that went ass-up. I got separated and got stranded. I don’t give a fuck what you’re waving at me, I’m not telling you any more.”

“You deadset on that?”

“Uh… yeah. Try it, cocksucker. I guaran-fuckin’-tee that you won’t get anything out of me. You’d kill me first.”

Jack considered it. His hands didn’t waver. Brock was absolutely sure, more than ever, that it wasn’t posturing - this man would genuinely blow his head off if necessary - but also that he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted fewer problems than that would create.

“Tell me one thing.”

“Depends on what it is,” Brock replied instantly, with a complete lack of compromise.

“Pine Gap.”

_So the guy’s a fucking conspiracy theorist._

_I’ve got nothing against folks that make shit up to give their lives some colour (Agent Mercer), but this one has a fucking shotgun. And so I tell him the truth, because that’s easiest and also not the part that’s classified (neat, huh?): I’m not based at Pine Gap, and it has nothing to do with my mission. SHIELD are operating independently in this godforsaken country, but I can’t tell him what we’re doing or why._

_He seems ok with that. At least, he puts the fucking shotgun down. I tell him I’ve never even been to Pine Gap - which is true - and that I don’t even know what they do there, which is a lie. He tells me that I don’t want to know. I ask him if he’s been involved at all, or whether he’s just a head case with a bunch of blurry-ass satellite photos and a subreddit. He gives me a weird look, different from all his other weird looks, and doesn’t answer me, and goes inside._


	11. Chapter 11

_ I’m still a little mad about being called a cunt by whatever the outback equivalent of trailer trash is, so I stay on the porch. I wander out in the rain for a minute, and it’s wet like rain everywhere else, so I go back under and run through a few exercises. The dog keeps bothering me while I’m trying to do push-ups, so I order it to fuck off. It looks sad and goes to roll in the mud. _

_ Jack comes back out and puts his foot on my back, so I tell him to fuck off as well and take his fucking foot with him. Usually I can handle that shit, but I’m still not a hundred percent recovered from the fucking mission-related thrashing I took a few days ago and it’s a pain in the ass, literally. He smirks at me and says something that I think isn’t a compliment, so I stand up and try to throw him. Not a smart move, I know, but I’ve got my pride, if that’s what he was trying to insult, which he probably was. _

_ In any case, it’s more of an even match than before, and he’s got nothing to tie me to. I can’t get him on the ground at first, so we kind of slap each other around, before I sense he’s going easy on me and tackle him (also not a smart move, but fuck it). We end up rolling in the dirt, getting soaked by the rain with mud trying to get places it has no business being, and the fucking dog howling at us from the porch. _

_ This is gonna sound fake, but I swear it was totally an accident that my hand went down his shorts. _

_ Seriously. _

_ I’m trying to get some proper leverage, because if I could throw him from the hips then I would’ve been able to roll over on him and either pin him or stand up, but… that wasn’t how it went, ok? I straight-up grab his ass instead, and he might have got the wrong idea, especially because I don’t let go right away - and I get stressed and react badly, by which I mean I fail to get out of the hold while he’s distracted and in no way de-escalate the situation. _

_ It’s still a fight, is what I’m saying, but there’s a bit - ok, a lot - of grinding involved and neither of us are really concentrating on winning any more. And then his hand is down my shorts, and ok I wasn’t putting up a resistance exactly, but it’s cold and damp and covered in grit. Which is not acceptable and also kind of painful, so I head-butt his chest and push him off of me. _

_ We lie out there in the rain for a while, getting our breath back. The dog comes and licks the dirt off of my face - gross - and then jogs around in circles, trying to eat raindrops. I decide I don’t want to be cold and wet any more, especially in the pants region, so I peel myself out of the mud and go inside to clean up. He wanders in when I’m butt-ass naked in front of the sink, of course, and slaps my ass, and I tell him to go fuck himself. He says he’d rather I helped, which I suppose counts as flirting for him. I don’t take him up on his offer, because I’m not that desperate and/or crazy even though we just dry-humped each other in the rain. And if you saw the guy you’d completely understand. He’s not unattractive, really, once you get past the ‘crazy fucking hillbilly’ look, but he’s a good bit bigger than me and I have a feeling he doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘gentle’. Which is fine, whatever, but not when I’m on the receiving end. I am  _ not _ into that shit. _

_ (Note to Agent Crabbe: edit the fuck out of this and make it sound like I wasn’t gay for the guy. Because I wasn’t. I don’t care how much I have to pay you.) _


	12. Chapter 12

“If you’re SHIELD, where’s your ID?”

Jack wasn’t really looking at him. It wasn’t a question laced with suspicion, either - he hadn’t just now thought of it. He’d been waiting for the right time to ask, and apparently this was it. While they were both trapped inside by the storm; while the power was out; while he was sharpening a huge hunting knife, with the shotgun laid close to hand and Brock _sans_ _culottes_ sitting in point-blank range.

Brock folded his arms around himself and sighed, half exasperation and half from having all his wounds re-awakened by rolling around in the yard.

“Fine.” He retrieved it - a tough plastic card that would probably survive a meteor strike - out of his drying pants, along with his dog tags. He’d snatched those off the ground when he ran, before they caught up with him again, and forgotten. Of all the things that had happened since then, looping the chain around his neck felt the best. Return to command. He kept hold of one edge of the card, in case Jack got any ideas.

“Fair enough.” Jack pushed it back in his direction. Their hands touched and lingered.

“Forget it,” Brock snapped, not quite sure what he was ordering Jack to forget but definitely not willing to think about it himself. The dog snorted and turned over in its sleep, comfortably stretched across two-thirds of the sofa.

Jack just made a quiet ‘heh’ and went back to sharpening the knife. “Alright. Go and take a squizz at the jenny, would ya?”

“No,” Brock said flatly. “Whatever you’re asking me - no.”

“The jenny,” Jack said, and pointed at the ceiling. “It’s copped out.”

“You mean how we’ve got no power? Why don’t you do it?”

“I’m not leaving you in here.”

“Fine. Fine, I’ll do it. Give me that.” He grabbed a torch.

“Like that?”

Brock spread his arms. “Yeah, like this. My clothes are wet - for some fuckin’ reason. See if I give a fuck.”

The wind nearly ruined his exit by pulling the door out of his hand.

“I can see fuck-all,” he declared as soon as he returned, dripping. “It’s dark as fuck and I don’t know what’s wrong with the fuckin’ thing, and I’d hate to drown before I find out.”

“I’ll do it in the morning.” Jack seemed to have resigned himself to this already. He moved the lamp closer to the bed, and threw another blanket down. “Come on.”

“I’m sleeping on the fuckin’ couch, I told you.”

“Then you’re fuckin’ retarded.”

The dog seemed to agree, refusing to move from the sofa and gnawing on Brock’s hand gently when he tried to enforce his decision.

“Fuck you.” He grabbed a towel and dried off, and tried to disguise his shivers. “And fuck you,” directed at Jack. “You gonna tie me up again? Because I tell you, buddy….”

“Nah.”

In any case, this was one of the few occasions where Brock wasn’t ready for a fight. He lay down and rolled himself into the blanket, and didn’t protest when the light was turned out, making the room pitch-black. Jack kept his hands to himself, for once, and was snoring within minutes, in tandem with the dog. Brock counted flashes of lightning, enjoyed the warmth, and wondered when they’d have the radio back.


	13. Chapter 13

_ I wake up sometime after dawn, because he’s been out fixing the fucking generator and crawled straight back into bed and is using me as a fucking hand-warmer. I tell him I don’t appreciate it. He says the storm’s pretty much blown over, and everything looks fine. I say I’m surprised the whole fucking place hasn’t fallen apart, and that it must be like him - looks old and beat-up on the outside, but actually it’s put together pretty well. He takes that as a compliment. I’m fairly certain that his hands and feet are warm enough by now, so I tell him to get the fuck away from me. Ok, so my phrasing was actually more like ‘put your fucking hands somewhere else, why don’t you?’ So he does. _

_ Naturally, I grab him back, to even the odds. Neither of us is armed, or fully dressed, so I figure it’s a fair fight unless the bed frame gets involved again. If I can get the advantage, I can keep it, and probably incapacitate him for a while - long enough to first grab a weapon, and second get to the radio. The fucking dog isn’t in the way, for once, and if it appears, I can easily deal with it. I’m reluctant to eliminate it, but most domestic dogs will back off once you’re waving a firearm at them and there’s plenty of ammo to spare on warning shots. Then, I can establish comms and maybe force Jack to take me to the nearest population centre. _

_ Advantage in conflict has to be gained through any means necessary: to subdue an opponent, appeal to their directives and use that against them, no matter what those directives may be. I know this is more Black Widow’s kinda shit, but let’s be real, all of us end up playing that game in one way or another at some point in our lives. _

_ What I’m saying here is, I’m sure it’s not the first tactical handjob in the world and it sure as fuck won’t be the last. And so what if it’s mutual. _

_ In any case, I manage to get on top and reap the benefits of my extremely short recovery period by going for the radio as soon as we’re done. I get exactly halfway before he grabs my ankle. I kick him in what’s probably his face and dive across the room. He throws a pillow at me. I dodge it and think I’m safe, but apparently kicking him the face does fuck-all because he gets behind me and throws a bedsheet over my head. I manage to kick him a couple more times because I’m not going down that easily, but the sheet gets wrapped around us both and we fall on the floor, kinda trying to fight our way out. Turns out he has a pretty short recovery period too. _

The dog bounded back in and immediately joined the party, jumping and snatching at the sheet. It ripped a sizeable piece off one corner and danced around like a third-rate gymnast. Jack shouted at it. Brock punched him in the gut, but with limited power. Jack pinned his hand down. They fell mostly still. The dog growled from somewhere behind the furniture, destroying its trophy.

“Fuck you,” Brock said, as soon as he’d got his breath back. It was warm and close, the sheet trapping them together. When one moved, the other got pulled along as well.

“If you’d stop going for the bloody radio….”

Brock fought the urge to headbutt him again. “What else am I supposed to do, huh? I want out of here. You’re not fucking letting me. All you gotta do is let me go. That’s it.” Jack was trying to sit up; Brock grabbed the edge of the sheet and forced him back down. “Why? Why are you keeping me here?”

“If you weren’t such a fuckin’ idiot….”

“Answer the question.” He was snarling an inch from Jack’s face. It didn’t seem to kill the mood, but there were more important things than his body’s response. “You know I don’t fit into your little fuckin’ conspiracy theory. You know I’m SHIELD. I’ve been honest with you, and now it’s time for some fucking payback.  _ Why am I still here? _ ”

“They’re looking for ya.”

“Tell me something I don’t fuckin’ know. How close are they?”

“In town.”

“Uh-huh. So, you wanna take me there - or you gonna wait for them to come to you? Because it ain’t gonna be pretty. You’ll be lucky to make it out alive. You and your fuckin’ dog.”

A scuffling came from behind the sofa. He could just about see its tail, thumping on the boards. He looked back and Jack was looking the same way, with a curious twisted expression halfway to fear.

“I’ll keep the dog inside,” Jack said, mostly to himself. “Not having that again.”

“What? You make a habit of this shit? You’re fuckin’ crazy.”

“Nah.”

“They shoot your dog last time?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Brock didn’t interrupt; he could feel something coming. Maybe he was convincing Jack to free him, in a roundabout way. Maybe this was it.

“Tell me,” Jack said, “would you open fire at an unarmed kid and his dog, just because he crossed a boundary he didn’t even know was there?”

It wasn’t what Brock was expecting, but that had been the theme of the past several days, so he went with it.

“Hypothetically? No.” He omitted the fact that he might let off a warning shot, way above the head, just for fun. “It’s against policy.”

Jack nodded.

“Why, did that happen to you?”

His silence didn’t say it all, but it said a whole lot.

“Look, you really don’t want that again. Do you?” Brock wasn’t exactly a master of the soft, cajoling tone that came so easily to guys like Pierce, but he was getting better at it. Any chance to practise was worth taking. “And I promise you, it doesn’t have to. All you gotta do is take me to the nearest town - or close enough. Nobody’s gotta see you. I can find SHIELD on my own.” He injected some real warmth into his voice, and was surprised by how genuine it felt. “You don’t wanna get hurt - and I… I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s a pain-free way out, buddy. For both of us.”

“If I end up in the slammer….”

“Nobody’s gonna arrest you. You rescued me, ok? I’m not gonna say anything if you don’t. They won’t even know you exist, right? Trust me."

_ Full disclosure: now I feel kinda bad about it, because I promised the guy that a bunch of shady-ass international security organisations weren’t gonna come after him and now they might. _

_ He says he’ll sleep on it. _


	14. Chapter 14

Jack’s head went down onto his chest, and it took him far too long to realise what was going on.

“Hey. Hey asshole! Oh, you’ll sleep on it, right? Well, don’t fuckin’ sleep on  _ me _ .”

He inveigled a hand up to poke Jack in the ribs, with zero consequence. Trying to get his legs free just tangled them up further, and the friction was distracting - along with the vibration at his collarbone. Jack was laughing.

“Fuck you.” Brock attempted to knee him in the groin and failed completely; more of a gentle rub.

“Oh, hello….”

“As soon as I get out of here, I’m kicking your ass.”

“Right.” Jack smirked against his throat.

“I’m serious.” He was, too, but it was hard to put it across when Jack’s smug face was an inch away. “Just try me.” He wriggled, and they slipped closer together. “Fuckin’ try me, I swear….”

_ And this is where it gets interesting. All the squirming around we’ve been doing has had some results - because of the contact - so naturally I make the most of the situation. Try to set up a bond of friendship between us, and then hopefully I can persuade him to let me go with the minimum of conflict and without stabbing him in the fucking face. And the fucking dog. _

_ What I mean is, we have another fight (kind of), and then I deliberately concede the advantage and let him stick his tongue down my throat, just to put him at ease. It works; we make out on the floor for a minute. Ok, maybe a bit longer than a minute. Long enough for the fucking dog to come back in and stare at us, then run off with its tail between its legs. I feel like there’s a definite trust being established. _

_ One thing kind of leads to another, which is fine because if he’s taking the initiative, it means he’s susceptible to following the cues that I lay out. Not that I’m giving those sorts of cues. That’s not my area of expertise. But I’m responding to situational variables. Like where his hands are going. _

_We’re still trapped by the sheet, so he can’t get his dick close enough to endanger certain vulnerable areas, but his fingers manage to do most of the work pretty well. I don’t object - apart from to tell him his hands are fucking cold and to at least fucking spit on them first or something jesus fuck - since it’s progressing towards a positive outcome (...I didn’t mean it like that) and maybe afterwards I can actually kick his ass and escape. _

_ I don’t manage to kick his ass and escape, once we’re done, because I don’t really feel like it. So sue me. Plenty of time to escape later, especially now his guard will be down. We doze off for a while, and I wake up with the fucking dog licking my head because it hasn’t been fed yet and it’s decided my hair is a decent alternative. I manage to drag my ass out of the sheet and get to the kitchen to look for some dog food, because it’s giving me The Eyes and I’m a fucking pushover when it comes to things giving me The Eyes (reminder: this report is highly confidential, don’t even fucking think about telling anyone that or I will get the distribution list, find you and end you). _

_ While I’m distracted filling the bowl on the floor, I fail to notice Jack coming up behind me. He grabs my ass and naturally, I spin round and punch him. The dog grabs the bag of food out of my other hand, and I have to fight to get it back. It’s growling at me, thinking that this is a fun game, I’m swearing at it, Jack is leaning on the table bleeding and swearing at me. I get the food out of the way and stash it in a high cupboard, tell the dog that it’d better eat what’s in the bowl and be fucking grateful for it, and tell Jack to stop being such a pussy, it was only one punch and what does he expect if he sneaks up on a fucking Navy SEAL from behind. He establishes that there’s nothing broken, and laughs at me like the crazy fucker he is and says he’s been hit harder by angry magpies. I step up to accuse him of being a fucking liar, and it turns into less of a confrontation and more of a make-out session. With blood. _

_ We back up against the counter, and by we I mean I, and then... I’m not fucking describing what happens next. It’s the second most awkward encounter of my life. (As for the first, just ask Rogers about the Popsicle Incident. He’s probably repressed the memory pretty well but anyone who can’t drag it out of him doesn’t fucking deserve to be on my team.) I don’t wanna go into the details because let’s be real here, Intel & Comms have all your internet histories and we know what you’re all into (especially some of you - I’ve got names, don’t fucking try me) and you all know EXACTLY how this shit goes down. _

_ Things I will say, for the record: number one, yes the dog does watch, and eat at the same time, making it ten times more awkward, and number two - who keeps lube in the fucking kitchen drawer? _


	15. Chapter 15

Jack huffed and leaned against him, mouthing lazily at his neck. Brock took a moment to get his breath back.

“Are we done here?”

“I reckon so.” Jack slapped his thigh. “Good root.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He shoved Jack away and climbed gingerly off the sideboard. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends.”

“Didn’t think it did.”

“And it doesn’t mean I’m staying, I’m not gonna be your fuckin’ Outback wife. You’re still gonna take me to the nearest town and then fuck off. You and your fucking dog.”

The dog leapt up at him, toes spiking his bare legs, and he fended it off with a well-placed foot.

“I don’t care if you’re scared of the SHIELD guys.”

Jack mumbled something about ‘never said I was scared’, which he chose to ignore.

“You don’t have to be seen. Just drop me off and tell me which way to walk.”

“You can walk?”

“Yeah.” He straightened his back, although his healing body was punishing him for the exertion.

“Then I didn’t do my job right.” Jack smirked and made to grab him again. He seized Jack’s wrists and held him off.

“Nice try, buddy. But if we ever do this again, I’m on top. Got that? Not negotiable.”

_And then we cuddle on the couch and watch movies, right? Like hell we do. We eat instead, and clean up a little (ok, a lot) and I try not to pick at my wounds because they’re healing pretty well. He gets dressed and goes out to check if his generator repairs have held up, and if the truck is ok - and if any bits of the house have fallen off in the storm, I guess - and the dog goes to drink from mud puddles and mark its territory and generally do gross dog stuff._

_He leaves me alone in the house, so I put my pants on, take a hunting knife from the same drawer as the lube (seriously, who keeps that there?) and go to the radio, nice and casual. I find the frequency, and the comms guys will have a record of that transmission; the one where I tell them I’m alive and ok, I don’t know where the fuck I am but I’m gonna try and make it to the nearest town within the next twenty-four hours and call in from there, and that I can’t rely on receiving any messages so don’t ping me back. And that it’s definitely not a hostage situation because why the fuck would I allow myself to be held captive in the middle of the Outback by a crazy conspiracy theorist and a retarded dog, both of whom I could kill easily under normal circumstances: that would be ridiculous._

_I end transmission, and sit there for a long-ass time with the knife thinking about whether I should actually kill Jack. The way I see it, he doesn’t have any intel he shouldn’t and he’s been good to me - I’d be dead if not for him - but he’s also significantly delaying my return to civilisation. Plus, by interacting with me, he already knows too much. I can’t rely on him to keep his mouth shut, except for the fact he probably rarely sees another human being, and probably never sees another human being who doesn’t think he’s a total nutjob. I’d have to kill the dog as well, though. It might get sad without him and I can’t fuck around with finding a fucking animal shelter or something to make sure it’s ok. The guy’s a civilian, too, and this time I don’t know if I’m willing to have that blood on my hands._

_While I’m thinking, Jack comes back in and naturally puts two and two together. I stay still and so does he. He looks like he’s seen a ghost - looks like he_ is _a ghost, with how pale he goes. I start to say something and he throws me up against the wall (and not in the fun way) and shakes me and demands to know what the fuck I was doing. He’s yelling, but he’s fucking terrified._

_I refrain from stabbing him, tell him to calm the fuck down - although he doesn’t - and say that I’ve contacted my good buddies in SHIELD and said I’ll meet them at the nearest population centre. I leave out the detail that they’ve probably traced the signal origin with enough accuracy to fly a drone right into his fucking mailbox, and assure him that they’re not coming for him: they’ll stick to my plan unless something drastic happens. I’m not mission commander for nothing. But it does sort of leave him no choice. Either he takes me where I want to be, or SHIELD hunt him down assuming he’s the reason I’m being held up._

_He lets go of me and calls me some stuff even I don’t wanna repeat, and sits down on the couch with his head in his hands. Now, obviously, is the ideal time to kill him (and the dog) and finally make my escape._

_I don’t kill him then - so fucking sue me. I circle back round to the kitchen, grab one of the guns and stash it in my belt, and bring him a beer from the fridge (plus one for myself, why the fuck not). He doesn’t look at me while we drink. I apologise, because it’s a rough fucking deal for him, but this is how it has to be. I need to get back, and he needs to stop keeping me like I’m a stray he found on the sidewalk. He still looks like I actually stabbed him, so I tell him additionally that the sex was pretty good. That makes him smile. He says at least he didn’t ever make the mistake of trusting me, which is pretty much a compliment in my book._

_He then tells me that half the people he knows were assassinated for knowing too much, which kind of kills the mood._

_I ask him what makes him think that. He says that all of them were involved on the periphery, they all saw something they shouldn’t, and they all mysteriously died afterwards. He’s safe, because they never told him anything. He won’t give me the details, presumably because he’s afraid I’ll add him to the list. Which is true, but I don’t let him know that. I say the way I’ve set it up, nobody’s even gonna know he was there, and I won’t talk about it unless I absolutely have to._

_(Addendum: Thanks a bunch Westfahl. If you ever get competent enough for high-level clearance - not fucking likely - and somehow end up reading this, know that I don’t forgive and I don’t forget, and I especially don’t forgive dumb fucks who make me double the length of my fucking reports with personal fucking details when I have better fucking things to do. Go shove a keyboard up your ass, it’ll save me the trouble.)_

_To change the subject, I bring up the twenty-four-hour deadline, and ask Jack when we’re going. He points out that it’ll soon get dark and we’re going fucking nowhere at night, for various reasons, but he’ll take me tomorrow morning. If I’m really sure about all this. I show him the weapon and tell him that I’m sure, and I’m prepared to help him make up his mind as well if necessary. He doesn’t seem scared, just kind of resigned._

_Before anybody asks, yes we share a bed that night. The dog tries to get in too, but I exclude it for the reason that it would be really fucking uncomfortable. It’s enough with one set of cold feet._


	16. Chapter 16

_ I’m also not fucking describing what happens in the morning. I’ll give you the picture - I’ve somehow got onto my front with my ass in the air, Jack is half-asleep and thinks it’s smart to roll over onto me, I’m half-asleep so I think it’s smart to let him. You know what I’m talking about. Anyone who doesn’t has been living in a fucking cave. A cave where the phrase ‘balls deep’ is probably something to do with soccer. _

_ After a couple rounds of that (we’ve both got stamina, ok), we set about loading the truck. Driving anywhere in this place is like going on vacation - a vacation where you might fucking die before you even get to your neighbour’s front yard. The dog leaps around and is generally unhelpful. Jack lets me assist, then grabs me and ties me to the inside of the door. _

“The fuck is this for?” Brock pulled at the bonds, but it was useless. He could only watch as Jack confiscated his weapon and stored it in the glove box. Jack made his way around the vehicle one more time, and got in the driver’s side.

“Just in case I fuckin’ car-jack you in the middle of the fucking bush? Where the fuck would I go? Tell me that, smartass.”

“Anywhere.” He shrugged, and started the engine - Brock couldn’t be entirely sure from this angle that the ‘key’ wasn’t, in fact, a teaspoon. “Might not get there though.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He slumped back against the seat. The sun was just beginning to rise and the air was still cool, coming in fresh through the open windows. He watched the scenery for a long while - the only other things to look at being Jack, and the dog (scratching its fleas in the back seat).

“Look, for what it’s worth - I’m sorry. For threatening you and shit.” He wasn’t, but it was probably best to make amends. “You gotta understand, this is purely business for me. I’m sure it’d be great to live with you in the middle of fucking nowhere, maybe get married, raise a family…” he caught Jack’s eye and toned down the sarcasm a little, “but this is what I do. And I can’t afford to fuck up. It’s pure chance you found me. I gotta keep things moving.”

“Pure chance that you’re not dead.”

“I know, and I’m grateful for that, I really am. They had me for two days, y’know. I can’t tell you who they were, or why, or what they did, but… leaving my ass to die in the desert was the nicest fucking thing they did. You’re a fluffy fuckin’ bunny compared to them.”

“Really?”

“Fuck you, you know what I mean.” Brock chewed his lip. “I’m gonna sleep.”

“Not gonna look out for landmarks?”

“There are no fucking landmarks. Wake me up when you decide to let me go.”

_ I’m way too keyed up to sleep - and a little bit sore - but I close my eyes and let him think I’ve drifted off because I don’t really wanna talk to him any more. He mutters something about me being a crazy cunt, and concentrates on driving. I can tell I’ve got him rattled, and I don’t blame him. It’s a shame that I had to force his hand, but anything that gets me away from outdoor toilets and spiders in your fucking cereal is fine by me. The dog climbs into the front somehow, since he doesn’t have it tethered at all, and sticks its nose in my armpit, which makes it pretty fucking hard to pretend I’m still asleep. I let it lick me like the disgusting fucking creature it is, and try not to wriggle too much. _

_ After about another fucking hour of that, the truck stops. I ‘wake up’ and see Jack sitting there, staring into the distance. I ask what the fuck he’s doing and he points out at the horizon and says that the nearest town is a couple miles in that direction and he doesn’t want to go any further. I call him a fucking coward. He says he’d rather be a coward than dead (I’m paraphrasing). I tell him SHIELD probably wouldn’t kill him, but might want to ask him some questions. He responds that he’d end up dead after they got their answers, which I can’t really argue with. I ask if he’s gonna untie me or if he wants me to take the fucking door off the fucking truck and walk two or three fucking miles with it strapped to my ass like a fucking ninja turtle (I’m not paraphrasing). _

_ He goes round the back and gets his shotgun, and lets me go with the unspoken threat of face destruction if I try anything dumb. I don’t try anything, just gather my gear, which doesn’t take long. He gives me a compass and tells me which way to head, and that it shouldn’t be more than a couple hours’ walk (less, since I know that SHIELD are outside the perimeter of the town itself). _

_ We almost hug, but that would be awkward as fuck, so we don’t. I say goodbye to him and he won’t look at me (at least with one eye), and I’m all ready to make a dignified exit like the badass I am when the fucking dog ruins it by jumping out of the truck and running up to drool all over my pants and whine like it somehow knows I’m leaving. _

_ I give it a hug instead, purely to stop it leaping up at me. It still follows me for about fifty yards, because it doesn’t have any sense of boundaries. Jack stays by the truck. _

_ I don’t know where the guy is now, or his dog. Let’s be real, there’s a possibility that I was dehydrated and dying of exhaustion in the Outback, and hallucinated the entire fucking thing.  _

_ Pretty sure I didn’t, though. Number one, the radio transmission was verified.  _

  _Number two, I still have fleas._


	17. Epilogue

[ _After the fall of the Triskelion; after Project Insight dropped from the sky; after a great many things happened, every one of them bringing not order but chaos_.]

\--

A SHIELD agent in full flight is a sight to see - not that you’d ever see them for who they were. Brock has tracked so many before that he knows exactly how it’s done (he’ll readily admit that he always liked the thrill of the hunt), and can avoid the same mistakes. He doesn’t prefer it this way round, but that’s ok. It’s still ok. He thinks - knows - he can lose them, if only for the time it takes to come up with a better idea.

So he runs, faster and further than he ever has before without actually leaving the planet. It feels the same to him as the time he took his father’s car when he was sixteen, going anywhere but here, endless, rootless, but above all boundless.

There are plenty of places with nothing but land and sky, but this is the worst of them. He touches down from his flight - a literal flight in this case, though international borders are quickly shrinking closed around him - and doesn’t know where he’s headed but goes there anyway.

The person who sells him the vehicle must be able to see something in his eyes; if he looked in the mirror, he’d be able to see it too. (He doesn’t make a habit of that anymore). This, he knows somehow, is the final stage of running. Because he’ll either die out here or - maybe better - be assumed dead. They’ll expect him to stay fugitive, and he won’t. He’s losing his taste for the idea of fighting his way out; it gets harder and harder every time, and he wants to do it only while he’s strong and able to give them something back, and that’s not the case right now. He’s only human.

He stops to look around, gets stiffly out of the car to lean against the front and survey the landscape in the blazing heat. Nothing for miles. Nothing doesn’t irritate him as much as it used to. Nothing is fine.

A soft noise by the rear is what alerts him and he’s instantly ready to engage, hand on weapon. It’s like someone is watering a very tiny plant with an even tinier watering can. He peeks, cautiously. A dog - a dingo, since he’s done his research - is decorating the back tyre with a small but impressive stream of something that’s only partly water. It makes eye contact and lowers its leg uncertainly. Its tail begins a gentle waving.

“Hey,” Brock says quietly, hoping that his voice will scare it away.

It turns and lunges towards him instead.

He’s quick but not quick enough, thrown off by the complete lack of threat signals - as well as  the dingo colliding with his crotch. He slumps back against the car and his hands find the creature’s head ready to snap its neck and it’s not attacking him, it’s  _ greeting _ him. He knows this one. Or, at least, it knows him.

“Alright,” a voice says from somewhere behind the dog, “what’s a mad cunt like you doing in a place like this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, the end - thank you to everyone who managed to read this far, and leave kudos and delightful supportive comments! It really does mean a lot to me that people are enjoying the writing :)
> 
> This AU is 'open', for the record; if anyone feels the urge to write about the further adventures of Outback Jack and his dysfunctional entourage (consisting of Brock and Dog), please do. (And link me to it so I can squeal over it)


End file.
